


You're My Kind of Hurricane

by tomlinsoul



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Bakery, Comic Store, Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, Panic Attacks, Protective Louis, Zarry best friends bc im trash, tw!, zarry friendship - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:12:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8910418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomlinsoul/pseuds/tomlinsoul
Summary: Harry's worked in the bakery on Garrett Road ever since he and his best friend left the dull life of their hometown to find something exciting in London. Now, just as they're becoming the official managers of The Bake House, there's a new man working in the comic store across the road.
Harry's never read a comic book in his life, but he somehow finds himself browsing various Superman cartoons, and Louis will be damned if anyone catches him eating a croissant like a pretentious dick, but soon he's stopping by as much as possible.
(It's not a thing, but maybe it is.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louavenue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/louavenue/gifts).



_no mountain, no sea, no thing of this world,_

_could keep me away from green eyes and brown curls._

 

It takes Harry three and a half weeks to realise that there’s a new boy working at the comic book store across the street. He’s short, is the first thing he notices, the second being his electric blue eyes boring into his and the cocky smirk as he registers that he’s been staring for half a minute. Zayn pats his shoulder as his cheeks burn red, averting his eyes and getting back to brushing the pastries with egg whites. “Good one, mate.”

Harry’s only response is sticking his tongue out and turning the oven on, desperately trying to fight his embarrassed blush.

 

He gets home that night and throws his coat on the stand like usual before walking into the kitchen to see Zayn. “I’m forever jealous that you finish earlier than me, we had the usual night rush and there was this old lady who refused to accept that we had run out of scones and demanded to talk to Alma and I hate everything,” he groans, taking a stool at the island in the centre of the kitchen, watching his best friend stir the spaghetti sauce for a second and then resting his head flat on his arms.

“Says the lucky bitch who doesn’t get up until nine every morning,” Zayn returns dryly, not even turning around to acknowledge Harry.

“Fair play,” he says, but it’s muffled by the sleeves of his oversized jumper.

It’s a big day tomorrow, and they both know it; can feel the tension in the air. They’d moved to London only seven months ago, tired of the same old, same old back home, both mutually desperate for a change of scenery, and when Zayn’s old friend Josh had offered them jobs at his godmother’s old bakery they held a celebratory party in Harry’s living room. (It was only the two of them with three bottles of wine and shitty 90s films playing on the TV and they had been slightly too happy which had been only half caused by the alcohol, but that’s beside the point.) Except, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows because they hardly saw each other outside of work, barely managing to eat together in the evenings and spending the occasional weekend out and about with each other. Alma, the owner of the bakery, had offered them an interview to see if they could potentially become co-owners of the store, as she was desperate to retire having run the shop for over 50 years.

When Zayn asked why she didn’t want to hand it over to Josh, she’d explained that it was more than likely he was moving to America shortly to become a drummer for an emerging pop group, which was everything he’d ever wanted. Harry had beamed like no tomorrow, accepting the offer with a shake of her hand and had babbled to Zayn about all the opportunities that it held, and “I’m just so goddamn happy, Z.”

 

“H, stop tapping, love, I’m trying to document these figures,” Zayn reprimands lightly, lifting his hand to rest on Harry’s ankle laying in his lap.

“Sorry,” he whispers, but a minute later his fingers are tapping against the coffee table again, and he can feel the anxiety in his stomach, swirling up to his chest and gripping his lungs, and suddenly breathing is too difficult to even consider.

He lurches up and he’s hyperventilating and before he can even register what’s going on, Zayn has shoved his laptop aside and is sitting next to Harry, holding his hand and counting his breaths. He’s dealt with Harry’s anxiety for longer than he can remember, knows not to touch him and knows not to tell him to calm down, but instead counts up to seven and then three, asks Harry to name everything that’s blue or red or yellow as he’s calming down, hugs him to his chest when he starts crying afterwards, still ashamed of letting his fear get the best of him even after knowing Zayn since his artistic ability was a squiggle of purple and orange on a piece of not-quite-white paper.

“This about tomorrow?” he asks Harry when he’s calm enough to lay his head in Zayn’s lap, letting the older boy play with his curls. He knows the answer though, knows Harry inside out.

Harry clears his throat before answering. “Yeah. Guess I’m just scared of, um, not being good enough.” The words are so quiet they’re almost a whisper against Zayn’s jean clad knee.

“I know, babes. You know it’ll be okay, yeah? I’m positive we’ll get the job, and if we don’t, we figure it out, ‘kay? It’ll be alright, swear on my life.” He picks his stroking motion back up, feeling Harry start to drop off in his lap.

 

Breakfast was the only thing that the next morning didn’t bring. They’d woken up on time, got dressed and both had a shower, had just sat down to eat some beans on toast when Harry had remembered that the road they usually took to work was closed to both traffic and pedestrians after an accident that damaged three houses and the majority of the road and pavement. They’d have to take the underground which added at least another fifteen minutes to their journey, and they were definitely going to be late, unless they ran.

They threw their jackets on and grabbed their stuff before sprinting down the road and into the nearest station, planning their route as quick as they could.

Harry notices the boy in the comic book store (curiously titled ‘every sidekick ever’) is staring at _him_ this time, and his cheeks flush as he remembers his hair plastered to his sticky forehead and dishevelled appearance, but there’s no time to dwell on it because Zayn’s tugging on his arm and pulling him into the bakery where Alma is stood with a wide smile on her face. “Boys!” she greets chirpily, waving them through the kitchen and up the stairs into the little office and living room. “You look a little tired, is everything okay?”

“We had to take the underground today,” Zayn said, as if that explained everything, and he looked confused as Harry rolled his eyes fondly.

“Anyway,” Alma’s signature grin replaced her concerned expression. “Shall we continue?”

 

Zayn insists on celebrating the success of the interview by inviting Liam, his boyfriend, and Niall, their close friend round to have a movie night. Harry doesn’t object because he can’t remember the last time he saw Liam when it wasn’t just in passing as he collected Zayn for a date night, can’t remember the last time he had to listen to Niall and Zayn battle it out for who can get the most drunk or who can get the most sarcastic comment in, probably towards Harry, and he misses it, misses them.

“Haz!” It’s Niall, obviously, and soon he’s tackled onto the living room carpet with a blonde blur of a boy on top of him, ruffling his hair and talking a mile a minute. “H, I’ve got a date! Met her at Pizza Hut when we both went to get the potato salad and she asked me if I liked potatoes and I said well I’m reaching in the bowl, aren’t I, and I’m Irish so, and then she told me not to be stereotypical to my ancestors and that potatoes were the foundation of not only the Irishman, but the Englishman too, and I laughed and then I caught her when we were going to leave and asked her on a date and she said yes!”

They’re all laughing by the time he finishes his story, and Harry feels giddy with happiness, because this is what he loves, when they’re all together and laughing and it feels like they’ve known each other forever and not just six and a half months. “Which movie, then?” he asks, and the attention is suddenly away from Niall and his date and on the evening they planned, everyone scrambling to be the first to the movie cabinet. Ever since they met, it’s been an unspoken agreement that whoever arrives there first gets to pick the movie. Harry goes to the kitchen to get the popcorn and crisps that he put in wide glass bowls before the others got to the flat.

Two Weeks’ Notice is playing its opening credits when he gets back to the living room. “Why do we have to watch this film?” Niall complains.

“Don’t know what you expected, Ni,” Zayn chuckles, and Harry can’t really disagree with that because every time Liam picks the film, it’s always a chick flick.

“Always been a bit of a girl, that one,” Niall mutters.

“Says you,” Zayn scoffs, lifting his legs for Harry to settle his under, and pulling Liam into his side.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You cried at Marley and Me Niall, and when you broke up with Ellie you sobbed over a tub of Ben and Jerry’s for weeks,” Harry interjects, and Zayn tries to subtly high-five him.

Niall huffs, but Liam’s soon started his lecture on gender roles and how they really shouldn’t be stereotyping women like that. They’ve missed the start of the movie.

 

(By the time the pizza arrives, Niall’s had two beers and the others have made their way through two bottles of wine, and they’re tipsy on cheap alcohol and good times and Harry wouldn’t have it any other way.)

 

It’s Zayn that starts it. Harry’s forgotten about the croissants he’s supposed to be wrapping, and is staring out of the window at the pretty boy in the comic store again. He’s rearranging a window display, replacing the batman scene for a wonder woman-saving-the-world one instead, and he can’t help but think of Liam and how he would be proud of the vivid feminism. For some reason, everything about him was mesmerising to Harry, something that got him through the long hours at the bakery, even longer now that they’re preparing to take it over, working with Alma to transfer all the workers and government records, finances and paperwork. It’s hard work, but the bright eyes and delicate fingers sewing the fabrics together and pinning the arms in place, helps him get through. (Zayn insists he only distracts him, and he might have a point but we’re not here to talk technicalities.)

When they get home that night, there isn’t any extra work to do, so they’re eating a greasy ready meal in front of trashy TV and Zayn brings it up just as Kylie finds out that Kim lied to her. “So, comic store boy?” he asks, not taking his eyes off of the escalating fight.

Harry’s head, however, snaps up immediately. “What are you talking about?”

Zayn rolls his eyes so hard Harry’s pretty sure that they’ll disappear into his skull one day. “I’m not blind, Haz, I see you ogling him every other hour.” Harry snorts indignantly. “Oh, come on, you’re not going to deny it are you?”

“I don’t ogle him, Zayn, he’s just pretty, that’s all,” Harry cries, sitting up straight and pausing the TV on an awkward looking Kourtney.

“Why don’t you go and say hi or summat,” Zayn suggests casually, pulling the remote from Harry’s hand to un-pause it. He feels Harry’s gaze remain on his face and looks over at him, shovelling another spoonful of grease into his mouth. “What? Just saying.”

“I need better friends,” Harry mutters, turning his attention back to the Kardashians.

 

He pretends to think the idea is utterly absurd, but really he’s considering it. Maybe. He’s certain he’d just make a fool out of himself, trip over or stutter or something, and what’s his excuse? He’s looking for a comic book? He’s never watched a superhero film in his life, let alone read a comic, he’d look like an idiot. Trying to shrug off the idea, he returns to the deliveries on his list.

As he drives round the town, all that plays on his mind is blue eyes and the flick of his dusty hair.

 

He comes home from the bakery on a Thursday night to the smell of Zayn’s homemade pizza (which is definitely his favourite meal), plonks his butt on the same stool as every night and sits up straight. “I’m gonna do it,” he declares.

Zayn turns around with amusement clear on his face and dough covering him up to his wrists. “Do what exactly, babe?”

Harry’s eyes are dancing with excitement as he replies. “I’m going to go to the comic store tomorrow, say hi.”

“Babe, that’s great! I’m so happy for you,” Zayn smiles fondly. Harry lets himself get walked over way too much, lets other people make decisions for him, and he’s doing something for himself for once. He’s proud.

Harry beams at him before telling him about the lady he helped cross the road and how she gave him twenty pence, and how he saw three cats today and they were all cuddled up together on someone’s front lawn, and Zayn rolls his eyes because it’s so Harry, and he’s happy.

 

Harry isn’t sure why he’s up already at 10 am on his day off, or why he’s walking down Garrett Road, passing the bakery where he can see his co-workers serving at the till and working in the kitchen and crossing in front of three cars to get to a comic book store. He isn’t sure what he’s expecting or why he’s doing something so unlike him. Maybe it’s because he misses having someone next to him as he falls asleep, or maybe it’s because he has three of his own friends and the co-workers he could call acquaintances, and even if he hates to admit it, he gets lonely in the repetitive routine of waking up late and getting home equally so, gets lonely missing his sister, and sometimes even his mum.

Maybe it’s _because_ it’s so unlike him, maybe he wants to prove that he can do something for himself, maybe he’s tired of people expecting him not to try new things, not to step out of his comfort zone. Either way, he’s stood outside ‘Every Sidekick Ever’ with the time on his phone reading 10:21, his heart on his sleeve, and a lump in his throat.

He’s greeted by a rush of air-conditioning dancing over his skin, warmed from the May sunshine. The boy isn’t in his Harry’s sight, so he starts to wonder round the shelves of comic books and the stacks of VHS tapes piled on waist-height tables. Noticing a flash of light brown hair from behind a precarious pile of superman posters, he makes his way over as subtly as he can with his gangly limbs and awkward height. His mind spins as his sharp blue eyes bore into his own, and just as he thinks that this could definitely be in a romantic comedy, he trips over a loose bit of carpet and stumbles over, only just managing to keep upright. “Oops,” he says as he flushes bright red, frustrated with himself for making a fool of himself in front of such a gorgeous human being.

“Hi,” the man smiles. “Can I help you, love?”

As if the universe decides that tripping over the carpet wasn’t enough for one day, he stumbles over his words too. “Um, I don’t know- think I’m just looking? Maybe- I-,” he cuts himself off before looking down at his feet in a quiet sort of shame, begging the ground to swallow him up silently.

“Wait, you’re the boy who works in the bakery aren’t you?” He grins widely, eyes flickering as if Harry had just explained space physics in a way that he finally understands. “I’m Louis, you’re scones are stellar, mate.”

“Harry, and, um- thanks?” Nobody tends to compliment him directly on the food he makes, more so the entire bakery, but for once he’s not embarrassed for everyone’s cartoon faces to be printed on the cards next to what they make. Harry’s face is always next to the scones and croissants, and sometimes on the chocolate muffins too. He’s suddenly very glad that he visited.

Louis chuckles. “So, are you sure you’re fine to just look around? No offence, but you don’t look like the type to read comic books.” His tone isn’t accusatory, more curious than anything.

“Um, yeah.” An idea flies into his head. “My friend’s daughter has just got into Spiderman and I’d love to get her something for when I go over next weekend.” It isn’t a complete lie. Lou and Tom had looked after Gemma and Harry countless times when they were younger, especially when their dad left and their mum’s life started to fall apart through alcohol and sex. Their daughter, Lux, had just started reading, and was obsessed with Tom’s Spiderman comics much to his delight.

“Oh, really?” Louis smiles, and the words seem genuine to Harry. “How about a poster- is she that obsessed? Maybe just another comic, but do you know which ones she has? Come take a look.”

Harry leaves the shop twenty minutes later with a large plush Spiderman under his arm and a huge smile on his face. (A considerably lighter pocket, too, but that’s neither here nor there.)

 

They’ll become the official owners of the bakery at the end of the month (which really isn’t that far away), and Zayn and Harry are hardly ever actually in the kitchen, more often than not in meetings with Alma or their solicitor, or sorting out finances and turning the office into a place that’s not too old-lady-ish, so Harry decides that its fate when he’s working the till when Louis steps through the door.

“Hi, Curly,” Louis smiles as he steps up to the counter.

“Oh, hi Louis!” Harry beams back, fighting a blush at the nickname and steadfastly ignoring Zayn’s eyes he can feel burning into his back, knowing he’s probably just going to smirk and give everything away if Harry acknowledges him. “How are you?”

“Yeah, good,” he says distractedly, scanning the display case. Harry deflates a bit when Louis doesn’t return the question, instead ordering a slice of blueberry pie that one of the other workers, Ashton, had baked fresh that morning.

Trying not to let it get to him, (the scones are right next to that pie) he smiles softly instead. “Course. Eat in or eat out?”

Zayn comes over as Louis walks out the door not moments later, rubbing his back lightly as Harry chucks the receipt in the bin under the counter and shakes his head to reprogram. “Alright, babe?”

He knows Harry enough that he could see the sag in his shoulders as Louis had been brisk about his order, knows that it wasn’t caused by his bad posture, but more by his invasive thoughts eating away at his self-confidence. “Yeah. Could you take over here? I think I’ll head up and finish up that paperwork with the council.” The words are too quiet for anyone but Zayn to hear, and because he’s looking at his toes, facing away from the window, he doesn’t notice Louis standing there, blueberry pie untouched on the counter, staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. Zayn does though.

“Sure you don’t want me to get Calum to cover the front and me to come up with you?”

Harry nods his head gently, peering up at Zayn. “Yeah, no, I’ll be fine. Just need some time to clear my head, I think.”

He doesn’t notice Louis turning away from the window as Harry climbs up the stairs.

 

It’s only a couple of minutes later, when he’s sat in the corner of the upstairs lounge with a journal on his lap and the beach boys playing softly through his earphones that he starts to get frustrated with himself.

_Why did I get upset?_ He inks the words across the top line and chews his pen. _He was ordering a snack, he didn’t come over to see me; why did I not know better? Why do I let myself get my hopes up? Why do I have a sinking feeling in my stomach and why do I feel drunk on teenage angst and sadness when I’m a twenty-two year old who really needs to get himself together before he loses his mind?_

_Maybe it’s because I miss the comfort of another body next to mine, maybe I miss having somebody new who cares from the beginning._

_Maybe it’s because I miss the life I had before she left and he left and they left._

_Maybe it’s because I’m tired._

He shuts the moleskin and leans back in his chair. The window overlooks the garden which they open in the summertime, and beyond the grey fence woven with natural ivy and planted flowers, he can see a whole other world that he’s not part of, a place he’s never stopped in, another suburb where there’s someone else just like him who’s questioning everything they’ve ever known just because someone new walked into their life. He closes his eyes.

 

(That night, his thoughts are crashing around his head so loudly that he can’t think of anything except deep blue eyes and in the morning, he tells Zayn that he can’t go in to work because he’s way too tired, and the pounding headache infesting his already aching mind, he actually tears up when he tries to open the door to the brightly lit landing to tell him. “I’ll stay home with you,” Zayn replies immediately, not a trace of hesitance in his voice. For once, Harry doesn’t try to argue.)

 

Somehow, he finds himself in front of Every Sidekick Ever for the second time with two scones wrapped tastefully in a White Cottage Bakery pastry bag the following Monday. Really, he should be back at the bakery helping Zayn work everything out because it’s the first day of managing the shop themselves, and even though Alma is there behind the scenes, legally it’s them in charge, and everything’s a bit too hectic. But the comic book store is quiet and there isn’t a chaotic atmosphere and a tense best friend, and there’s a pretty man sorting through the heroine posters.

Louis spots Harry pretty quickly. It surprises him, but it really shouldn’t because there’s no-one else in the store and the posters are literally right beside the entrance. (He can also hear Zayn’s voice saying, ‘you’re not as subtle as you think you are, babes.’)

“Curly, hi!” he grins, and Harry feels his face break into a wide smile at the nickname Louis seems to have acquired for him.

Harry doesn’t reply, though. Doesn’t really know what to say.

“What’ve you got there, then?” Louis gestures to the bag, the intricate pencil drawn bake-house glaring up at them.

“Oh, um, I bought you a scone? Just because you mentioned you liked them, and I baked them fresh this morning so, I just thought…” He lets his worlds trail off as he looks down at his awkward pigeon-toes and wonders why the hell he’s here and not with Zayn because even with masses of people looking and judging him for how he’s managing things, the anxiety he’s experiencing now is more intense than ever. He’s considering making a dash for it as he feels his arms clam up and his ears begin to fill with a thick, impenetrable cotton when he hears a soft laugh.

“Really? That’s great, love, thanks. Did you bring one for yourself, too, because you could come and sit with me if you have time, you know,” Louis says gently, and Harry lifts his head to meet his eyes.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his anxiety melting just a little, a quiet warmth filling its place. “I don’t want to intrude or anything.”

“Course, love. Been a slow day, anyway, need some company I think.” The words give Harry a definite comfort and he beams up at Louis, following the man into the back of the store. (He doesn’t miss Louis flipping the sign in the door to show Cat Woman saying ‘closed’ instead of Captain America declaring everyone welcome.)

They sit in the quiet of the backroom for over an hour, getting to know each other better and chatting about anything and everything until the inevitable ‘where are u???’ text comes in from Zayn. “I really should go,” Harry smiles a bit guiltily. “I left Zayn on his own on our first day as official managers of the bakery.”

“Nah, it’s cool. See you around, Curly.”

 

It’s not a thing. Except maybe it is. Gradually, Harry finds himself outside the comic store more and more often and not missing the way Louis somehow winds up in the bakery, lingering at the counter until the customer behind him starts getting a little too impatient.

(One time, Harry had shown up at ESE during a Saturday Afternoon, only to find the only other employee Harry knew of stacking the new edition Marvel comics, bar the owner Simon who the boys all knew quite well.

“Um, is Louis here?” Harry had stuttered nervously, subconsciously winding the paper bag around his fingers, smudging the ink with his clammy hands.

“No, sorry mate. Tommo doesn’t work Tuesdays or Saturdays. Want me to tell him you stopped by…?” His nametag reads ‘Stan’, and because he seems nice enough, Harry smiles, albeit apprehensively.

“Harry,” he replies, and is too busy stumbling out and away from the store embarrassed that he misses the knowing smile and raised eyebrow littering Stan’s face.)

Harry’s pretty certain that the afternoon that changes everything is one when the sun is almost as beaming as his mood and the bakery is shut. He calls over his shoulder to Liam, who’s in Zayn’s room while he pops to the shops, that he’s going out, picks up his phone, wallet and the basket he packed earlier on and he rushes out the door, plugging his earphones in and walking down the street to the tune of Kiss Me. He feels like maybe the words are a bit too appropriate. Although he hates to admit that his best friend was probably right; he was falling for Louis. It was a crazy experience, something that he never expected himself to feel, he’d always deemed that love was for people like Zayn, not people with a fucked up mind and people who aren’t worth it. Of course, liking Louis didn’t mean that Louis necessarily felt the same way, a thought that haunted him in the depths of the night when he was kept awake by his cruel brain spinning in circles.

Pushing the thoughts aside, he focussed on the pavement in front of him, his feet leading him down the busy streets of London, across the road and in front of the comic book store. It’s Wednesday, and Harry hasn’t seen Louis since Sunday since Monday was too hectic to leave the bakery, and he knows from experience that heading in on Tuesdays isn’t such a great idea. The other man finishes his shift at 2:45, leaving Stan to cover the last couple of hours before the shop closes, and Harry’s phone indicates that it’s just gone half two now, leaving him to wait around for fifteen minutes until they can get out of here.

Louis’ talking to a customer when he walks through the door, but he acknowledges Harry with a wave of his hand, and a jerk of his head towards the employee room. He walks in obediently, surprised to see Stan sitting at the table eating a banana and scrolling through twitter on his phone, the ESE t-shirt resting on his shoulders. “Hi, Harry, mate. Alright? Tommo’s just finishing up, you can sit down if you want,” he grins widely, eyeing the picnic basket but not mentioning it.

“Thanks.” Harry gives him a small smile before setting the basket on the floor and flopping onto the sofa with little grace. He’s in a super good mood and it’s one of the few days where he’s feeling literally no anxiety in his stomach. He feels untouchable.

Louis walks in a few minutes later. “Harry, love, you okay? Haven’t seen you since Sunday.”

“Yeah, missed you, Lou. Thought we could go on a picnic? Packed a lunch and everything,” he smiles hopefully, standing up, bringing the picnic with him.

“Sounds great, love,” Louis grins, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist to pull him in for a hug.

 

They get to the park Harry picked out ten minutes later and they sit away from everyone else right beside the glimmering river. (He knows it leads to the Thames, but only because he went through a canoeing phase for about a week as soon as he and Zayn arrived in London and they followed this river down to the Thames. It ended once Zayn ended up with a sprained wrist and Harry with a black eye and a very long trip to A&E. They prefer not to talk about it.)

In the distance they can hear the delighted squeals of the kids in the play area and dogs barking excitedly as they bound into the water. Somehow, the way Louis’ blue eyes are gazing at him makes it feel like they’re the only people for miles, and his breath hitches in his throat as he realises that he really wants to kiss him.

He doesn’t get a chance, though, because soon Louis breaks his stare. “What we got for lunch then, Curly?”

He tries not to blush. (He fails.) “Um, I made some jam sandwiches, I didn’t know if you liked them but to be completely honest if you don’t we can’t be friends anymore,” he giggles, looking up to meet Louis’ eyes again. (The blush deepens.) “There’s also some cocktail sausages, and some vegetables and a fruit salad. I packed some yogurt too, but we’ll have to share it because Zayn definitely ate the one before last and forgot to tell me, so.”

Louis smiles so wide that Harry’s pretty sure his eyes are going to disappear into the crinkles beside them. “Sounds lovely, Harry.”

They sit in a comfortable silence, having the occasional discussion about anything that comes to mind, and Harry wishes he could bottle up the sound of Louis’ soft breathing and the river rippling in the background and keep it for a rainy day. When he realises this, it comes with another realisation; their heads are so close that Louis’ face is inches away from his curls, and then another one: this is suspiciously similar to a date. Fuck. He sits up.

“Louis.”

He opens an eye lazily. “Yes, love.” It shuts again.

“I’m really sorry.”

Louis opens both his eyes this time, and they don’t shut again. “For what, darling?” He joins Harry in a sitting position, looking straight at Harry.

Harry’s breathing starts to pick up, and blood starts rushing through his veins at a pace he’s definitely not comfortable with. The recognition that he’s going to have a panic attack does nothing to quell the fear rising in his chest. “I really didn’t mean for that, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-“ He cuts himself off with a strangled sob as the first of the tears start to fall. No matter how many times he’s been in this situation, it’s just as terrifying every single time. Losing control of every single emotion and every sense of calm that you’d been holding on to was bad enough, and the panic immobilising you completely is the cherry on the top of the cake.

He can’t believe that he basically conned Louis into going on a date with him. He let his stupid fucking feelings take control of him again and ruin the friendship that they’d had; Louis had obviously only been pretending to enjoy the time together because he felt bad for the awkward boy across the street that couldn’t form two sentences without wanting to cry in a hole. The thoughts spinning in his brain send him into intense hyperventilation, and there’s not enough oxygen for him to breathe, but then there’s a hand on his back and a soft voice in his ear.

“Harry, love, I need you to breathe for me okay?” He shakes his head, gasping out, tears still streaming down his face. “You can, lovely, follow me, yeah?”

He tries desperately to follow Louis’ deep breaths, but he doesn’t understand why he hasn’t run away yet. He comes to the conclusion that he’s just making sure he doesn’t get sued or something for leaving someone him in a state of severe distress, and that he’ll run away very soon, just when he can prove that he tried. “Please don’t leave,” he gasps out between desperate breaths and tired tears.

“I’m not going to leave, Harry, I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere,” he soothes, placing Harry’s hand over his heart. “Can you feel my heartbeat, love? I’m right here, see.”

They sit like that for a good ten minutes until Harry’s gasping breaths have turned to hiccups and the steady flow of tears have lessened considerably. He collapses into Louis’ chest and apologises profusely in a croaky voice, the only certainty he’s feeling is knowing that he doesn’t ever want to be without the bright eyed man beside him.

“It’s alright, darling, there’s nothing to worry about. You don’t have to be sorry, okay?” Louis murmurs into his hair. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Harry’s surprised by the concern lacing Louis’ voice, and sits up abruptly. “You don’t want to leave?” he asks incredulously, “Why haven’t you left yet?” Utter confusion ebbs its way onto his face.

“Harry, no, why would I want to leave? It was a panic attack, love, you can’t help it,” Louis sounds upset, making him feel even worse. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulls Harry back into him, smoothing his matted hair and wiping his wide green eyes gently. For the first time in a very long time, Harry feels safe.

\--

It’s nearly dusk by the time they load everything back into the basket and they walk out of the park. Louis insists they go back to the shop so he can drive Harry home, ignoring his protests that its only three streets over; a ten minute walk. “Babe, I’m regretful to even leave you at all tonight, let alone let you walk home alone in the near dark. Let me do this.” And really, Harry never stood a chance.

When he gets into his flat, he sees Zayn and Liam curled up on the sofa watching a film, and he drops the basket and sheds his coat straight away, running over and settling himself on their laps, cuddling into Zayn. “You alright, love? Haven’t heard from you all day, I was getting worried,” Zayn smiles, pulling him closer to his body.

“Louis called me babe,” he sighs dreamily, and that’s all Zayn needs to know.

 

It’s only a week later when Louis shows up in the bakery office with his car keys in his hand and a wide grin spread across his face. “Fancy a ride, sunshine?” he asks, spinning the keys into the air and catching them again.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks incredulously, but the smile on his face gives him away.

“We’re going out, idiot. Zayn said he’d lock up. Anyway, you’re ignoring my question.”

“I thought it was a given.”

London is in bumper to bumper traffic, unsurprising for a Saturday night, but the radio is blasting late night music and Louis is humming under his breath, and tapping the beat against the rubber of the steering wheel. “I love Radio One,” Harry says, and it’s partly to break the silence and partly because it’s true.

Louis laughs. “Yeah, I know Grimmy quite well, actually,” he says off-handedly.

“Really?” Harry blurted, “That’s so cool, I listen to his show literally every morning.”

“Yeah. Met him at a bar years ago, he was trying to chat me up, the old bastard. Seemed to think I was some sort of bottom, but you know, quite the opposite.” The comment is completed with a vague hand gesture, as Louis’ eyes remain on the road, changing gears casually, but Harry’s thoughts are far from innocent and his pants are starting to get a little tighter at Louis’ mention of his sex life.

“Oh, um-“ He has no idea what to say to make this un-awkward, “I am. A bottom I mean.” Fuck. That isn’t what he intended.

Louis laughs and brushes it off, much to Harry’s relief. “I guessed as much, Curly,” he replies, meeting his eyes. Harry has absolutely no idea about how to reply to that, so the car returns to its previous silence, although a slight tension is wrapping its way around Harry’s very being.

They continue through and out of London in a haze of music and talking, and the sky is clear, the stars piercing the sharp air, and Harry never wants to stop feeling the utter euphoria and happiness bubbling over the surface so intensely that he can’t sing anymore, only laugh with a smile so wide it could relight the sun. The car stops when they’ve reached a field so far away from everything that there’s only static on the radio, and the only light is the full moon and the twinkling stars. “Let’s get out,” Louis speaks.

Spreading a blanket across the bonnet, Harry is certain that they’re the only people on the planet as he curls himself into Louis’ side. His heart skips a beat when Louis breaks the silence yet again. “Harry.” He gets only a quiet hum in response. “I think I love you.”

He feels himself freeze, his limbs stilling in pure shock as he tenses against Louis’ body. “Really?” His throat is dry and the word sounds croaky, but he’s honestly not sure he heard right.

Louis chuckles softly, burying his nose in his Harry’s hair. “Yes, love. Thought I made it pretty obvious.”

Harry doesn’t know how to respond. He’s liked Louis ever since he first met him, making up some stupid excuse about Lux’s birthday, when really he just wanted to be close him, has pined after him for endless months, moaning to Zayn about his blue eyes or the little nicknames he makes up for Harry, the things he does that are so small everyone else might miss them, but it just shows Harry that he cares about him, that he’s important and valid and Louis likes listening to him and what he has to say, values him in a way that Harry isn’t used to.

But why would Louis like _him_?

Louis could literally get anyone he wants, yet he chose Harry to befriend, Harry to like. Harry who’s only ever been known as Zayn’s friend, the one who can’t speak to the server at the sandwich bar without stuttering so hard it sends him into a further state of public humiliation: a panic attack. Harry who’s hair is a mundane brown and eyes are often more dull with the lack of energy he faces having regular attacks than bright with wide happiness, Harry who’s never deemed himself worthy of anything better than being tossed to the curb when people are done with him, never deemed himself worthy of something as fascinatingly beautiful as _love_.

And yet here Louis is, proclaiming that he loves Harry for all he is and all he’s ever been. Here’s someone who knows how broken he is and has still fallen in love with him over croissants and superman, over rivers and car rides, over panic attacks and break downs.

Here’s someone who could give Harry everything he needs all over again.

“I think I love you too,” he says, and he pulls away from Louis a bit to look him in the eye. “I just- you need to know what you’re getting yourself into, yeah?”

“Harry,” Louis smiles gently, “I know what I’m getting myself into, okay? I know you’re not perfect and I know you have a history and a past that I have so much to learn about. But I want to. I want to learn everything about you, because I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, not any of my girlfriends in secondary, or boyfriends in uni. None of them have ever been as special as you. I know you come with baggage and that you’re a natural disaster in the outline of this beautiful boy, but I gotta say, H, you’re my kind of hurricane.”

Harry averts his eyes, and looks down at his lap, a burning red blush decorating his cheeks, and a smile tugging on his lips. “Kiss me, Lou.”

Louis tucks a finger under his chin and lifts it up gently, meeting their eyes before breaking contact and staring down at Harry’s lips. He leans in gently and takes his hands in his as he connects their lips in a soft kiss.

It’s soft and gentle, and it makes Harry feel like he’s finally home.

 

They decide to go back to Louis’. Harry says it’s because Liam’s over and he’s ninety percent certain they’ll end up banging by the end of the night but they both know it’s because they’ve wasted so much time pining from afar that they’re not ready to leave each other again yet. Obviously, by the time they’re situated on the couch with a movie of Harry’s choice on the TV, he’s nearly asleep, curled tightly up to Louis, head on his chest with not a sliver of space between them. Still, they remain dutifully on the sofa until the film finishes, paying more attention to the way the fit together so perfectly that they have no idea what happened on screen, before Louis budges Harry over a bit to stretch, making Harry copy, and sit upright again.

“Do you want to go to bed, love?” the older man asks, smoothing a hand through Harry’s locks for what must be the four hundredth time that night.

Harry nods sleepily, rubbing a sweater-covered hand over his tired eyes before looking up to see a fond expression adorning all of Louis’ features and blushing furiously in response. “What?” he askes bashfully, looking back down.

“You’re so cute,” he murmured, his tone hushed, the words just for Harry. “I’m so glad I can say that out loud to someone other than Stan.”

Harry feels like crying. It doesn’t seem an appropriate response, however, so he settles for burying his face in Louis’ shoulder and collapsing into his arms.

(They fall asleep in Louis’ bed and he’s certain that even without the thick comforter on top of them, he’d be the warmest he’s ever been.)


End file.
